Frozen Yogurt
by haruhasu
Summary: Back home for a week after his second year at university and seeking shelter, Arthur walked into a frozen yogurt shop just as the employee was closing the store…an employee that seems disturbingly familiar. Of cold winds, uneaten yogurt cups, and melting hearts.


Summary: Back home for a week after his second year at university and seeking shelter, Arthur walked into a frozen yogurt shop just as the employee was closing the store…an employee that seems disturbingly familiar. Of cold winds, uneaten yogurt cups, and melting hearts.

Warning: Foul language. Real warnings wil come later. Yeeee.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia

Author Notes: This would either end up being 7 chapters, a three-shot, or a two-shot.

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**Frozen Yogurt**

Part One

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Arthur came out of the theatre with a disgruntled huff of "well that was a crock full of shit."

Don't doubt him. Obviously it was shit. It was an _American _film for God's sake. No plot whatsoever, and whatever plot there was, was full of holes that were only prevented from audience realization thanks to a disconcerting and disorienting multitude of overly done explosions.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Explosion, explosion, explosion.

Truly, what a waste of his money, he sighed. He wouldn't even be at the theatre had Peter not have a play date with his middle school friends for their graduation.

Regardless what Peter says, it was a play date. Well, it may have very well been an actual date. Arthur wasn't stupid enough to not realize that although there were a number of boys, there were also a couple of girls in his brother's group of friends; more importantly, there was one with perhaps an Aussie-like accent that twelve-year-old Peter eyed _very _suspiciously with the awkward air of pre-teen crushes.

Having concluded that, Arthur couldn't just leave him alone now—their mother might very well dismember him, college student or not. Pretty sure she'd want a report of this anyway. She could actually count on having grandkids with her youngest son, Arthur snickered.

In his defense, he had only come back home to visit after his successful second year in university. The flight from England to America was expensive, but he had really missed some people… The first night of the weeklong stay he had been planning to spend back home, his mother forces him to take his brother out to the movies.

Arthur felt the chill nip at the back of his neck and he upturned his collar to brave the unnaturally cold spring night when it was already so close to summer. Why did he decide to only wear a thin, short-sleeved shirt? A look at his glass-chipped watch said it was past 9 PM.

He looked back at the time slots out front of the cinema.

Shite. Peter's movie won't be over in another hour. Trust the brat to pick the longest pop culture movie there is.

Arthur yawned, resisted the urge to rub at his eyes, and shivered at another gust of cold wind.

Why the fuck was there a water fountain out near him anyway?

He was already outside of the theatre too, so he can't very well waltz back in with an already ripped ticket. They'd think he was trying to con them. And God forbid he buy another American film ticket just to seek shelter from the cold.

He was Arthur BAMF Kirkland and dammit if he was gonna risk embarrassment and ask that Russian security guard to let him back in. First off, he has his British pride (which translates to he has _quite_ a lot, mind you) and that he won't be asking anyone anything anytime soon. Second, it seemed colder than the Siberian winters in there with that intimidating chap…

Strolling along the quad it is.

The quad was deserted, save for one or two stragglers waiting in line for their own tickets. Even worse, most of the shops, cafés, and restaurants he could have sought shelter from the chill littering around the movie establishment were already closed. He only had lights from the street lamps for company.

He wouldn't have minded sitting at one of the outside café chairs, really, he wouldn't have, but he was _really_ fucking freezing his bollocks now.

So first chance he got, he entered the first place he could that still had their doors opened when he pulled.

Nose nipped red and arms around his middle, a light chime announced his presence to a frozen yogurt employee facing away from the shop entrance…who interestingly enough, had a broad back and a mop of light hair that just seemed so _familiar._

"Sorry, dude, shop was already supposed to be closed five minutes ago. I'm just cleaning up mostly, now."

Arthur could have obnoxiously argued that if it was already closed, then how come he was very able to obviously _open _the door?

Or he could have heckled the man for false advertising into letting him sit in for the few scant minutes to enjoy a small escape from the winds as compensation for his failure to put up the "CLOSE" sign.

It took him about a minute, and granted, it now had a lower register and the shoulders were broader and the height was taller, but fuck him if Arthur didn't realize that infuriatingly endearing accented drawl of voice. His heart slammed to his chest in furious beats, doubled in speed.

Instead, he struggled to say a quick, haphazard incoherent concoction of "_bollocks_, shite, fuck, 'kay, _so_ sorry" while scrambling to push himself out the door. Christ, this is not happening! He could feel his face redden—but purely from the cold, mind you!

But it was too late to escape. He was halted by a voice he last heard three years ago with the firm belief that it will never grace his senses again. He felt eyes staring on his back and he knew that they were blue—the shade of the bluest blue _that ever fucking blued_.

"Is that you…Art? Arthur Kirkland?" There was a hint of incredulity and shock.

_Shite. Shite. Shite!_

Looks like Alfred remembered his accent too. Damn Oxford University for strengthening his word inflections!

He could've made up a bullshit story right then and there. Say that _oh, hello_, didn't quite see you there, chap.

Or _no_, Alfred, clearly _not_ attempting to flee the scene, here, old boy.

But Alfred doesn't deserve that, Arthur thought. For the sake of the two years they were together, Arthur thought that Alfred deserved better than that.

Besides, he was sure Alfred would call him out on his bullshit as soon as it left his mouth. This idiot was rude like that.

He took a half second to collect himself and faced Alfred F. Jones, ex-high school love.

"Hello, Jones."

"Well _hot_ _damn," _breathed Alfred in that low masculine voice that sent shivers down Arthur's spine.

There they were.

Those damn baby blues that shined clearer than a summer day.

What Arthur didn't expect were the rectangular glasses perched on his nose. They were something new, he thought. Perhaps not new to Alfred, but it was a novel thing about his old flame that Arthur hadn't seen before. The sixteen year old Alfred that he had dated didn't wear glasses. It was a change from what he knew, yet Arthur couldn't help feeling oddly attracted to them.

His senses were on high alert and after that recognized change, he sought out other foreign concepts. His physique had changed too. He was taller, buffer, and, judging by that arrogant smirk from guessing Arthur's identity, he was oozing of confidence. A far cry from the kid with the self-esteem issues and awkward lanky body who had limbs too long for his own good.

Well he certainly grew into them, Arthur mused as his face reddened even more. _Hnng, __those biceps...!_ Visible and bulging from the way Alfred propped his elbows on the counter as a hand cradled his chin, head titled in a playful angle. Such a devastatingly handsome picture he had become. There went another shiver. He hoped to God Alfred didn't notice those.

"Heya yourself," Alfred drawled with an almost reverently devilish whisper, and there came the wide, beaming grin that inevitably tripled the speed of Arthur's poor heart rate. Blue eyes slowly scanned his under-dressed form composed of a slim fit shirt and tight skinny jeans—the variety that Alfred had always adored on his body.

Adored to look at _and _take off, that is.

Arthur noticed him lick his lower lip, tongue perfectly pink and glistening.

_Fuck._

"Long time no see, but I can see time's been _hella fine_ with ya." He made a slow show of scanning Arthur's shoes, legs, belt (is he looking at my _crotch?!), _chest, neck, lips, and finally made eye contact. "Lookin' good there, Art," the Bastard had the audacity to wink.

_Good Lord._

After very nearly swooning at that pathetic attempt at flirting, Arthur gave his weak self a mental drop-kick.

He was definitely gonna go into cardiac arrest before Peter will even get out of that blasted trash movie._  
_

Because of fucking course, he would run into _this_ American.

_"Sit down, Artie. I'm sure we've got __lots_ to catch up on."

Face on fire and heart slamming in his chest, Arthur thought that he should've taken his chances with the Russian.

...At the very least, his balls weren't freezing now.

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Author's Note: Welp. Grammatically bastardised in a lot of places, I'm sure. If you could point those out, that'd help me out. Sorry, English wasn't my first language. Otherwise, feel free to tell me what you think!


End file.
